


The Pretender

by indoissetep



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, OC death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6294229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indoissetep/pseuds/indoissetep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FN-2187 stares at his own reflection and doesn’t recognize the boy staring back at him. He studies the lines of his nose, his brow, his mouth, and wonders, not for the first time, if the thing that’s wrong inside of him doesn’t show through. If others can’t see it in the same way that he feels it.<br/>He wonders if this is the face of the enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pretender

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 3 of Finn Week (song association) over on Tumblr. I debated whether or not to post this because, let's face it, it's basically songfic and we're not in 2005.

Keep you in the dark  
You know they all pretend  
Keep you in the dark  
And so it all began

  
Send in your skeletons  
Sing as their bones go marching in... again  
They need you buried deep  
The secrets that you keep are ever ready  
Are you ready?

They stand in formation on Empire Day. Why they are still celebrating the inception of something that has been dead for thirty standard years is beyond FN-2187. But there they stand, regardless, for hours on end in the freezing Starkiller air. Endless rows of opaque white armor, like exposed skeletons, sun-bleached and britle.

The band plays a constant stream of military marches. Though that’s not right, there is no band, only evenly spaced speakers. The songs have no words, they don’t need them, they echo in their bones – within and without – and awaken dormant things. In most, it is fervent loyalty, pride, and righteous hatred.

In FN-2187, they produce a hollow ringing, like the aftermath of a grenade going off too close. His emotions are not stirred. He is not filled with renewed passion for their cause, with a renewed desire to stomp out all who stand against them.

He wonders, not for the first time, if there isn’t something wrong with him.

 

I'm finished making sense  
Done pleading ignorance  
That whole... defense

Spinning infinity, boy  
The wheel is spinning me  
It's never-ending, never-ending  
Same old story

 

Whispers reach them from across the galaxy, from a moon named Trillia. Everyone knows the name.

Trillia, the jewel of the new territories.

Trillia, the pride of the First Order.

Gone.                     

A slaughter, a tragedy, a bloodbath, an open declaration of war.

Now, the New Republic is to blame. Now, the Resistance. The whisperers can’t seem to agree, but it makes no difference, the enemy is one and the same.

And what of the First Order? Too late to stop the loss of innocent lives. How unfortunate, how tragic.

Everyone mourns, in a detatched, dutiful sort of way, and during that week’s mandatory morale sessions, when every holoprojector on base shows the gruesome aftermath of the massacre, their yells are laced with rekindled passion.

But FN-2187 remembers. He remembers overheard chatter in the hallways, from the mouths of older soldiers, not two months ago.

“Getting deployed again...”

“...gotta deal with some dissenters in the new territories.”

“Fucking  Ankh-Trils, man...”

“...Those assholes are hard to kill...”

FN-2187 remembers, but everyone else seems to have forgotten. Wilfully.

Ignorance is strength. Ignorance is their daily ration, it is necessary for survival here.

FN-2187 does not allow himself to forget.

 

In time or so I’m told  
I'm just another soul for sale... oh, well  
The page is out of print  
We are not permanent  
We're temporary, temporary  
Same old story

 

TK-1770 dies.

Everyone mourns, in a personal, concealed sort of way.

Another takes her place, equivalent, interchangeable. She settles into TK-1770’s bunk, into her squad, into her literal and figurative shoes.

FN-2187 thinks back on the Clone Wars, on their predecessors that were the first to don the white armor he now wears. He thinks back and wonders if, despite the different shades of hair and skin and irises, despite the different shapes of mouths and noses and ears, if they are not still clones. Once under the armor, are they not all indistinguishable from one another? Assembly-line boys and girls spit out in quick succession. And if they fall, there’s always another one ready to spring up and take their place.

Nothing here is permanent, not life nor death.

 

I'm the voice inside your head  
You refuse to hear  
I'm the face that you have to face  
Mirrored in your stare  
I'm what's left, I'm what's right  
I'm the enemy  
I'm the hand that will take you down  
Bring you to your knees  
So who are you?  
Yeah, who are you?

 

FN-2187 stares at his own reflection and doesn’t recognize the boy – not yet a man, but almost – staring back at him.

He studies the lines of his nose, his brow, his mouth, and wonders, not for the first time, if the thing that’s wrong inside of him doesn’t show through. If others can’t see it in the same way that he feels it.

Is this the face of the enemy?

Are these the eyes of a traitor, the mouth that spills lies and deceit, the brow that twists in grotesque anger in the holos shown during their morale sessions?

What will he do when the seeds of disloyalty that grow inside of him break the surface of his skin?

He tears his eyes away and dons his helmet once more. Numbers and letters flash red before his eyes, precise and calming.

FN-2187

42nd training cadre

19 standard years

Heart rate 72bpm - ELEVATED

Inside his helmet, with orders streamed straight into his ears, filtered air pumped straight into his nostrils, and readouts breaking the world down into stats, there is no need to think for himself.

Inside the tight confines of his armor, there is no room to think for himself.

For now he’s thankful for that.

  
What if I say I'm not like the others?  
What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?  
You're the pretender  
What if I say that I'll never surrender?

The child called FN-2187 dreamed of rising through the ranks of the First Order, of one day wearing a red pauldron upon his shoulder and leading other troopers into glorious victory against the villainy of the New Republic.

To that child, training was a game and one that he was great at.

The best in his age-group, everyone said so.

It felt good to stand out, though the child was too humble to say that out loud. It felt good to be different in a sea of sameness.

But back then, the enemies he had to open fire on were nothing but snarling projections, caricatures of old rebs that all shared a computer-generated likeness. Back then, the shots from his blaster were harmless blanks and the battlefield was a simulation, crisp and clear and odorless.

Now, FN-2187 is ordered to open fire on unarmed, cowering civilians, each of their faces unique, but sharing a likeness produced by fear. Now the shots from his blaster sear through air and skin and flesh like they’re all the same thing. Now the battlefield is solid and gritty and it reeks of smoke and blood.

Now it no longer feels good to be different, to have thoughts that none of his fellows seem to share.

Now it is not the red of a rank pauldron that sets him apart from the rest, but the red of the blood smeared down his helmet.

Now FN-2187 is afraid of what he might see in the mirror once he sheds his armor.

But he’s even more afraid of what he might become if he continues to wear it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
